


What I've Done

by HeyYouWithTheFace



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Organized Crime, fuck I wish I knew how to write flirting, straight from my id
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-05 11:45:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3118970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeyYouWithTheFace/pseuds/HeyYouWithTheFace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There are some sins that you commit that you can't come back from, you know, no matter how hard you try. You just can't. </p><p>It's like The Stranger is waiting for your body to quit. Because he knows, he knows that he already owns your soul. </p><p>And then I think maybe there's no Stranger. You die... and The Father, he says, "Nah, nah you can't come in. You have to leave now. You have to leave and go away and you have to be alone. You have to be alone forever.""</p><p>(Inspired by the Tom Hardy movie "The Drop", which I cannot recommend enough.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Late Visitors

The glass shatters but that isn't what he hears. 

He hears a higher, sharper crack; one that comes with a trembling silence after it, not the tinkling of shards and laughter and mocking applause. His hand clenches on the mug under the rag and for a moment he feels the solid glass creak in his fingers. His head snaps around and his eyes go straight to the puddle of beer before the echo of the crash even fades.

But his free hand doesn't go to his waistband. Maybe that's progress, like they tell him in group. Maybe he just knows he doesn't have anything there anymore. 

"Oh, fucking _wonderful_ job, there, mate!"

"Didun fuckin' see't-"

"S'a fuckin' tall glass of black water, f'fuck's sakes, fuck're you gonna miss it?!"

He watches from behind the bar, careful eyes to Hot Pie's spouting mouth. Guy's like a flabby barrel with legs, shaking his head and his black birds nest is trembling on top of it. The table - the _last_ table - is suddenly surrounded by standing figures, or figures trying to stand and failing. Boros and Dontos and a couple of other pasty stevedores, polishing the seats with their arses all night so he could see his face in them. Problem is, you put away that much booze, you're in no mind or state to stand up and admire your reflection. 

His mouth tightens and he lets out a quick breath through his nose. It's as far as he gets. 

_What'll it get you? Nothing. Just a couple of drunks, a four-buck drink in a two-buck glass and two minutes of mopping. Let it go._

Gendry grabs the mop and the dustpan and walks over. Five minutes before closing. Fucking typical.

"Gedout 'is way, will ya?"

"Gen, you dun' have to do that right now-"

"Move yer feet, Dontos, c'mon."

"Right, finish up and pay yer tabs. No, no, don't fuckin' start, you've been dodging all sodding month, you can at least make a dent in it. C'mon, at the bar..."

A chorus of groans and dark mutterings, but hands go rifling through pockets and wallets and crumpled notes are tossed onto the table. Hot Pies pudgy hands are quicker than you'd think, snapping out to pick up the big ones first and ignoring the-

"Fucking coppers? Fuck you think you're paying off, Boros, fucking gobstopper debt?"

"Puda fiver down, too-"

"Oh, aye, that'll go bloody far. Gods, alright, give 'em here..."

The voices wash over him, like everything else does. He concentrates on the glass first. Big chunks are easy to find on the linoleum, he picks them up with careful fingers. It's the slivers and the specks you have to worry about, because you don't want some twat getting them stuck on his shoes. That and it's just messy. Gendry hates mess. He gets down on one knee and you'd think he was restoring a lost masterpiece, not brushing wet glass into the pan. Once that's done he starts mopping, soaking up the booze and making the floor shine as he goes.

"Well, that's a start, at least."

"Y'know, considering the amount of business we throw you guys-"

" _Business_ comes with _money_ , Lom, and don't go acting arsey 'cause you're the soberest drunk at the fucking table. Funny you'd be all up in arms, too, considering you've got the biggest tab."

"Fuckin' hells, just _sayin'_..."

There's more moaning and slurred bullshit but they take it to the bar, at least, let Gendry finish up. Less time than he thought, actually. He stands back up and apart from the slick expanse on the floor, you'd never think anything had happened, and that'll dry by the morning. 

He stares at it. He wonders why you can't clean up everything so nicely. Stares at it so long that-

"Oi? You alright there, mate?"

He turns and sees Hot Pie giving him a confused stare, thick eyebrows making one fat caterpillar across his eyes. He nods and takes the stuff back behind the bar, dumps the glass, squeezes out the mop. The drunks are struggling to get into their coats like they're getting out of straitjackets, and of course, they have to help them with it. But Gendry at least takes the time to call them a cab, idling and spewing steam and poison into the frigid air when they open the door.

"Didn't have t'do that, Gen."

"Don't need them trying to drive home," he says quietly, watching them clamber into the the cab live a reversed clown car. "They get in a wreck and the first thing they'll get asked is "where were you drinking?". Don't need that bother."

Hot Pie nods, eyebrows raised, impressed with his partner's foresight. But that's always been Gendry, he supposes. Big and broad and you'd think that made him slow and dumb. Plenty of guys who got into the cage with him thought the same thing. All muscle, no finesse, no strategy. Gods, they found out the fucking hard way.

"So, you alright to clean up?"

Gendry catches the hopeful note in his voice and wonders if there is a certain someone with broad hips and a bad reputation waiting for Hot Pie in some neon corner. He nods and his lips don't smile, but his eyes do. 

"Yeah, not a problem. Just go out the front and lemme lock it behind you."

"Triffic, mate, thanks!"

He knows that some men would give him a "good luck, tiger" or maybe a "tell me what she was like" before he shut the door, but Gendry doesn't bother. It worries Hot Pie sometimes, even on nights where he's got Sara on the brain (and in the cock). He looks back once and sees that chiseled face meet his gaze. Just a nod. A corner of his mouth tugging up. Not even curiosity. But he's got other things to worry about; late visitors. Hot Pie doesn't ask questions about that, and doesn't want his friend worried.

"G'night, mate. Tomorrow at three, yeah?"

"Aye."

He closes the door and a moment later Hot Pie hears bolts clang and snap into place. The neon sign flashing "The Matador" dies with the flick of a finger. No more bright lights, just dark glass and he always thinks it's kind of sad how once you get past the glare and the curling letters, it just looks like the guts of a broken machine.

_Not bad. Have to write that down, smartarse._

He shakes his head and bundles up his coat. Pocket stuffed full of tips, and Sara isn't one of those girls that minds if you pay for her drink in singles, long as you're paying for it.

The wind is bitter and it's promising worse. He walks carefully to his car, skirting shining ice and frozen tarmac, and as he gets inside, he sees the front lights go out, and the blacked-out Range Rover glide through the gate to the back entrance. Out of habit he looks down the street, then twists around in his seat behind him...

Nah. Nothing doing. No life save a few skittering shadows with claws and hairless tails. Then he snorts as he turns the ignition and he hears Gendry in his head. The old Gendry. The one who died in that fucking room.

_Someone always sees. Only thing that matters is, are they smart enough to know what they're seeing._

 

_\--------------------_

 

Hot Pie's barely outside and he hears the dull growl of a powerful motor out back. He knows it's them, and wonders if they were waiting for the guy to leave. They never liked him, that much Gendry can see, even if Hot Pie was blind to it. Probably because he's a fat little loudmouth and Gendry is what they'd prefer to deal with. Tall and strong and quiet. Businesslike.

Gendry felt his breath come out in something between a growl and a cough. Nine years and still they saw him as one of them. 

He's down behind the bar punching numbers into the safe when the door to the kitchen squeaks open. Soft padding of leather shoes on wood and smooth plastic. Two guys, that he can make out, and going by experience. They stop behind the bar and he flicks up a glance as he opens the door.

It's got two little shelves. The top is messy with envelopes and rolls with elastic bands pressing them tight and wads and even a ziploc or two, haphazardly piled up in a rough mound where they all fell together from the hole cut into the bar above, under the plastic Guinness mat.

The bottom one has a a neat pile of folded cloth bags on it, and a gun. Cleaned every week. Fat little forty-fours in the wheel. Hammer always cocked back, ready to go. 

Gendry can't help it, when he looks up and sees those dark, restless eyes looking down at him. He thinks about how long it would take, and how risky it would be. 

He swallows and one corner of his mouth turns up.

"Eve'nin'."

"Morning." His name is Rakharo or Jakharo or Andreo and hells, Gendry can't remember. The Dothraki boys all have names that end in a long vowel but the middle is always a harsh sound, like the word stabs at you. He thinks that fits perfectly. The other man is looking around with wary eyes behind a black curtain of hair well past his shoulders, like he's expecting a shooter to jump out behind the Aegon The Conqueror pinball machine. "Too late for evening, no?"

They speak with thick accents that seem to spit out their words, grind them between their teeth. They agitate with their voices without even meaning to. Or maybe they do. Given how they came to be in the neighborhood, Gendry would bet on the latter. They barely needed an excuse, these boys. Most of them wished they were back home, where things were simpler, like killing cops and "proper" retaliation against your enemies and their families. But the money was in Westeros, in the stone cities, and so that's where The Khal had brought them.

He packs the cash into the bag and zips it up, hands it to Rakharo. The dark man takes it and a Rolex worth a few month of tips peeks at him from under an Armani jacket. Ah, maybe not the country, but they liked the perks. That was for sure. Hands with faded prison ink on the knuckles and wrist weighs the bag, bouncing it up and down. A fortune in a shitty bar, dropped bit by bit by customers who weren't really customers. 

Gendry didn't think on it too much. They called him, told him what to do, and really, what was he going to say? It wasn't like the movies and the mummer's performances. The plucky hero goes against the men with guns, and he gets killed. That goes double with the boys from the East. 

"Feels like average night."

"I guess."

"You would guess?" Rakharo smiles and Gendry remembers the gun. Forces himself to forget about it. Why did they have to make every sentence a fucking question? "You guess if you don't _know_ , yes? But you _do_ know. You been doing this a while for us. So, you not need to _guess_ , do you?"

Gendry swallows hard, and Rakharo sees it. He smiles wider, showing missing teeth and gold teeth and the pleasure in torment he can't get from casual rape anymore. Every other time they call and he does what he's told, they play this game. Let him know who's in charge, like he doesn't already know.

"Yeah, I suppose."

"Suppose?" Now Rakharo laughs and turns to the other man, who smirks but is still looking around, doesn't give a fuck about head games. Hand in his pocket. "Same word. Guess. Suppose. Maybe. Possibly. I know you fucking tongue better than you do." Gendry doesn't answer and that's not part of Rakharo's game. He fucking hates it when these pale fucks act like they have balls. Even someone like The Bull. "So... do you know?"

"Know what?"

"If it was average night?"

"Yeah, I'd say it was average. Bout the same number of guys paying for drinks with envelopes and rolls. Same faces, maybe a few fresh ones."

Rakharo nods and smiles and it's like he's praising a child for getting his ABCs right. Gendry concentrates on his breath. Slow and level. Exactly the same time to exhale and inhale. Lose himself in that; use the wind in his lungs to blow out the fire. 

"Good. See how easy it was to answer fucking question?"

The fire rose. It grew a voice and fists and it whispered to him. Blue eyes froze and grew hard, matching that gleeful black stare from the Dothraki. His partner's attention went to him at once. Animal instincts. Sparks in the air. He knew all about that.

"Yes. Very easy."

And like that, the sparks were smothered. Rakharo chuckles and opened the bag, picking out an envelope seemingly at random. Worn paper rustled and rasped against itself until he'd counted out Gendry's whack for the night, and he tossed it on the bar like he was paying off a stripper. Then he laid his palms flat on the bar, shoulders relaxed. Like he owned it. Like he knew, in a way, that he did.

"Bad fucking bartender," he said. "Not offering guest a drink."

"What would you like?"

"What is good?"

Gendry reached behind the bar and made a point to turn his back on them both. When he came back around, it was with a brown bottle and two shot glasses. He poured the Dothraki a full measure into each, then placed the bottle on the bar, and turned it to face them.

"Famous Grouse. From Scotland."

"Single malt?"

"Blended." He closes the safe with his knee, and hears it clang shut. "Got the bottle in last month."

Rakharo's lips turn up in curiosity and he takes one glass, muttering something without vowels and packed with consonants that Gendry doesn't even try to follow. Clearly it meant something along the lines of "lets try this", because the other man uses his free hand to take the other and they both tip them back slowly... savoring the burning amber liquid... and Rakharo smacks his lips and gasps and his tongue roams outside his mouth for a moment.

The glass shatters. That time, Gendry hears it for what it is. 

"Best to clean that up," Rakharo says as he gets to his feet. His partner places his glass back on the bar, but there's no hint of apology or sympathy in those flat black orbs. He simply didn't feel like smashing a glass. "Can't have mess on your floor, can you?"

He turns with a smile and his partner is already falling in step behind him, taking the bag he holds carelessly over his shoulder, like a month of street rent and payoffs and kickbacks and sales and blood money is dirty laundry. Gendry just stands there. He can't move. He can't breath, and because he can't the fire starts to rage out of control. Every time. Every _fucking time_ -

_4-14-72-3_

_Four seconds to punch it in, another five to grab the gun, get over the bar, walk outside._

_They're not in a hurry, they'll still be there. In the back yard. Backs to you._

_One in Partner's head, one to each of Rakharo's legs and then-_

He grips the side of the bar. Smooth, warm wood and the metal around it. His fingers stroke the molding, try to find some peace in the craftsmanship, such as it is. He could have done better, back in the day. Back in the now, really, but his forge is-

_Fucking punks. Greasy Dothraki cunts. Fucking do the world a favor-_

He bows his head and the neon doesn't touch his face. He rocks back and forth from his feet up and stays like that for what seems like hours. The jukebox beeps and whistles. The A/C clicks and whirrs. Cars pass now and then... their engine snarls into life out back and then it fades... they're gone... they're safe... and so is he.

"Gods..."

Gendry whispers the word and much as he hates it, there's a plea there. He never believed. Still doesn't know if he does. He _hopes_ there's something out there, but he knows it wouldn't do any good. They wouldn't care. They wouldn't forgive him, not if they were like Elder Brother said. He's a sad sack bartender who's closing on thirty and he's got nasty shit on his tab. Night's like that just made that all the more clear, and everything he tried to bury comes back like he never put it in the ground.

He closes his eyes and breath out. Green eyes onto gone and never fading look back at him from the inside of his eyelids. His hands twitches. Finds the cool, comforting weight of the whiskey. He licks his lips. Been a while. Too long, maybe-

"Hey?! Hey, is there anyone in there?!"

Pound-pound-pound on the front door and it almost makes Gendry flinch because whoever it is, they're not holding back. Then he hears it's a girl and his first crazy thought is, _the fuck is a girl doing running around Flea Bottom at three in the fucking morning?_

He stands there like a slack-jawed mute for a long moment and maybe she'll go away. Sign's off, door's locked, front lights are dark, surely-

Then there's a face in the window next to the door. He sees just a flash of it, lit by the moon, before her hands are cupped around her face so she can see better through it.

Mousey brown hair with highlights of grey and black. He can't make out her eyes but he can see a face made of lovely ovals and pouting lips and a frown that's-

_Lovely? Fuck did that become part of your bird vocabulary?_

"Hey?! Arsehole, I can see you! Open the door!"

"We're... We're closed!"

"C'mon, man, I gotta piss!"

Gods, she's so fucking annoying! And she isn't even drunk! Irritation hip-checks rage out of his mind and Gendry stomps around from behind the bar to deal with this monumental pain in the arse, even if she is barely pushing five-three. He shoves his face close to the window and speaks slowly, like he's trying to reason with a dog.

"We. Are. Closed!"

"You want me to piss on your door?!"

"I want you to go away!"

"Please, man..."

She's sweetness and pleading in a heartbeat and Gendry doesn't buy it for a moment. But he doesn't look away.

Grey eyes. Like the moon tonight, with wide pupils that aren't drugged out but still crackling with life and for a moment he can't look away. 

"Please."

It stinks, and he knows it. Who goes down a street with nothing but iron gates across doors and dead lights and picks one to bang on and ask to use the bathroom like it's the middle of the day? She could have some friends out there. Waiting out of sight, hands filled, and Gendry can see them in his amped-up mind. But tonight, he'd welcome the stress relief. 

He thinks all of that and he's still looking at her eyes. He's sure he's seen her before, but those eyes... he'd remember them.

_I wouldn't forget._

"Alright," he huffs, and starts pulling bolts loose. "But no messing around!"

She grins, somewhere between a nymph and devil with the silver sheen in her eyes, and holds up two fingers.

"Squire's Honor!"

_Yeah, we'll fucking see..._


	2. Gimme Shelter

She was going to _kill_ her fucking idiot of a sister! And that blond _cunt-rag_ she called a boyfriend!

Oh, she was making a note of that one. It would be worth spitting out just to see his pale face look like a choked tomato.

"Why in the fuck did you leave me there?!"

"Joff said you'd gone ahead!" Sansa was shouting over whatever soulless electro Joffrey was blasting from his car, like he just needed a sign saying "Rich Fuckwad" in neon attached to the hood of his car. "Yah-Yah, I'm sorry-"

"Don't call me that, f'fuck's sake!" 

Arya was almost shrieking by that point, heels stabbing the sidewalk like knives, like it was fucking personal. God, she'd actually _paid_ for those stupid, painful little bastards and now there was no-one to appreciate them but the occasional wino and a small army of rats. The wind was whipping and the air was frigid and she knew she should be worried about the cold, but her skin was already prickling and flushed with anger under her skirt and top.

 _A skirt. I wore a fucking **skirt** for this_ _shit!_

"Just get back here and pick me up!"

"OK, wait a-" 

Sansa's voice cut out to static and rubbing and shards of music and squawking and Arya rolled her eyes and waited, like she was talking to fucking Customer Support. Then she started feeling the cold, arms wrapped around herself as she realized just how much skin she had showing. Every passing pair of eyes seemed to be laughing at her and she huddled deeper into the doorway down the street from the bar in Flea Bottom. She longed for her warm room with her Stephen Hawking poster and basketball hoop over her laundry hamper (not either ever got used, natch), changed into faded denims that slid over her like second skin and a baggy T she could have used as a blanket.

But instead she was out _there_ , cold and finally realizing it, glad she hadn't worn much in the way of makeup and-

"... ya... Arya? Yeah... Yeah, I'll... Arya, you hear me?"

"Yes! What's going on?!"

"Um, well..." Something about her sister's tone made her anger both plummet and boil anew all over again. Sansa was stumbling over words, like she always did when she was trying to not-quite-lie. "Joff's, ah... he's already... already in the club and they-"

"They get him the fuck outta there and fuck back here!"

"I've tried," Sansa said, voice stronger now, if only because she could foist the blame on someone else. The fuckin coward. "He's just got settled in the VIP Area, you know-"

"I don't know shit and I don't want to know! Fine, you come and get me! Get him to give you his-"

"Arya, he won't do that and you know it! That Porsche is his baby, he-"

Arya let out a growl that would be worthy of the wolf-thing on her family crest. Wolf-thing because her Dad said it was a _direwolf_ , which was like a wolf but bigger and stronger and smarter, and Arya had just rolled her eyes to that and asked if he'd a bridge to sell her, too. He was adamant, though, and she wasn't one to needle her Daddy too much. After all, there were families with krakens and chained giants and unicorns and sodding dragons. An overfed wolf was tame by comparison. 

"Sansa," she said, slow, measured tone of her voice every inch a threat as screams and yells. More so, maybe. "I am in Flea Bottom. I am alone and it is pushing three in the fucking morning. My phone is-"

_BEEP-BEEP!_

"-dying, fuck! I have money for a cab, but soon no way to call one so I need you to woman the fuck up, get his keys and get here-"

"Babe, whazza madder?" 

Arya clutched the phone so hard the casing nearly cracked. His voice, his fucking voice, already bladdered on Jaeger Bombs with Vodka-Redbull chasers, slithering into her ear over the line. Sansa fretting and fussing at him but like a child, like a little girl and not the woman she was. She was five years Arya's senior and still she'd less sense and less balls. But ten times the looks, and apparently, that's what mattered. 

"Joffrey, it's Arya again, she's-"

"Babe, babe, babe, shhhh, shhh, I'll sort it-"

"Joff, she's scared-"

"Sansa, don't you _dare_  hang up-"

"Babe, gimme the phone, yeah, yeah, love, s'arlight, s'alright-"

"Sansa?! Sansa, I'm fucking-"

"She's gone back inside," Joffrey said, sounding remarkably sober, but then again he always did when he wanted to focus on hurting somebody. "And the phone's going off after I'm done, so shut the fuck up, hail a cab, and go home, ugly little bitch."

Her mouth clicked open as the line clicked closed, replaced by empty air. Out of instinct she tried calling back... Voicemail. She tried again. Same. Again and again and ah, fuck the little sod hadn't been kidding. Arya tucked the phone into her purse and the full reality of where she was swept down on her like a hood stuffed over her head. Flea Bottom was where the cops wore body armor at all times and every day they dragged bodies from the dumpsters and canals or just scraped them up from sidewalks and floorboards. Flip on the news or open a paper, odds were it would be some outraged hairdo or persona screeching about the dangers of the place, King's Landing's very own criminal warren and illicit labyrinth.

Arya thought it'd be cool to hang out there, just for a night. Go nose to nose with the underbelly. Now she was reminded of that Nietschze quote, and alone in the doorway, with the streetlamps flickering and all other lights steadily going out, she could feel the _abyss_ gazing into _her_. 

Car doors closing. She peered out and felt every inch of her five-foot-three as she did, and hated herself for it. She gripped her purse tighter, hoping she could use it as a club, then wondering if stupidity would kill her before a mugger. A blacked-out Suburban, huge and prowling like some prehistoric beast, hopped over speed bumps next to the bar down the street, turned the corner and drove away. Arya swallowed. Shit, that could have been her chance if the bar was still-

The neon sign flicked off. There was still someone in there!

 _OK_ , she told herself, marshalling he breath and the balls and kicking off those stupid fucking heels to move faster. _Go over, pound on that damn door until someone opens, use the phone, call a cab, and pay the guy what he wants for the inconvenience. Even though he shouldn't want anything, because you're a young lady and men are supposed-_

"Oh, like I ever fucking cared..."

She jogged across the deep shadows and the glaring lights like a burglar, like a deer in the city, something out of place and furtive. Every step she saw leering grins in the shadows, mundane things made monstrous by her worried mind. She forced them back. Buried the fear. She was Ned Stark's daughter, a man who'd built himself from nothing but Northern grit and made King's Landing their home. She wouldn't be afraid of empty darkness, but still she rapped her fist hard on the door, dispelling some measure of her fear with it-

"Hey?! Hey, is there anyone in there?!"

Movement from inside; blurred by shadows. The sign outside and the main lights were off, but bull, throbbing neon placards were still buzzing over the bar, casting weird lights through the interior. Arya pressed her face to the glass, hands at the side of her head, and saw someone tall and broad at the bar. Looking at her. 

_Come one, come on, do I look like a one-woman armed robbery?!_

Then the moment drags on and a fresh gust whistles and licks around her bare knees and she's tired of damn waiting. It's just... rude!

"Hey, aresehole?! I can see you! Open the door!"

"We're... We're closed!"

Arya blinks, a little surprised. She hadn't expected to hear... what was even the word for that, anyway? The words came after a pause, a break, a hesitation. Like he was recovering himself from something painful. She shook her head, highlights dancing around her eyes. 

_Fuck is this, Doctor Phil?_

"C'mon, man, I gotta piss!"

Well, technically that was also true but for some reason the lie came to her tongue faster than the truth. She didn't want some huge guy in a dingy bar knowing she was alone and stranded in the city's ghetto. He strode over and she could see more of him. Sloping shoulders and a strong, powerful gait. Guy must work out, and had been for years. Then he leaned closer and blue lights smacked her in the face like a cop car had just burst into life on the other side of the glass.

Dark hair like woven ink, messy and spilling down to his shoulders. Dark skin, too, or just tanned, making those blue blazers look even more intense. A strong face, she thought. Jaw, cheekbones, lips and brow... all spoke of a life lived hard and from check to check, if he was lucky. But he'd survived, and his eyes burned with that day-to-day victory, so close to defiance. Arya swallowed and felt an unexpected wriggle inside her. Damn...

"We. Are. Closed!"

_Well, that ruined the bloody moment._

"You want me to piss on your door?!"

"I want you to go away!"

"Please, man..."

She felt like a traitor to the sisterhood, but she was old enough to know that puppy eyes and a pitiful tone could go further with men than screaming and yelling. She turned it on like a faucet, like she did the second time she crashed her car and her Dad was on the warpath. She could see his hard stare start to falter, flicking his eyes up and down her. But not in that open, avaricious way she's used to. Like Joffrey's pathetic little posse would do with her. He was assessing her, shrewd and careful. 

_Old eyes. He can't be much older than me, but his eyes are... something._

"Please...?"

"Alright. But no messing around!"

Arya's face lit up with a grin that split her round cheeks and she could have kissed the big bastard. Wouldn't have minded, actually, and it was that extra flush of boldness that brought up her hand up with two fingers.

"Squire's Honor!"

He made a disgusted little sound as he pulled the last bolts loose, and Arya couldn't blame him. The Squires? Shit, that lasted three weeks before the Troop Master kicked her out and recommended an exorcist to her father. The door opened and a blast of warm, beer-flecked air washed over her, pouring around a man who almost filled the doorway. She stared up and up at him and he glared down, kind despite his reservations but not having to like it.

"Bathroom's in the back," he said, stepping aside and letting her in. "And I know what's in there so-"

"Don't steal any toilet cleaner or Pledge?" She dared to give him a wink, feeling more like Proper Arya again, which was pretty much the opposite of the "proper" her mother tried to teach her. "No worries, big man. Back in a minute."

When she comes back he was sitting on a barstool, running his fingers over the top of a tumbler of Scotch. Staring into the amber liquid like he was a priest at a font, looking for wisdom. Arya couldn't help but pause and watch him for a moment. Noted the stubble that wasn't quite a scruff, smattered around his chin and neck. The way he was sitting down but still seemed to be standing, body alert and ready to move. She was in his peripheral for a handful of moments before his eyes slid to her. 

_Those really are showstoppers, barkeep._

"Thanks, but I have one more thing to ask you."

He took a sip from his drink. "Ask."

"I use your phone? Need to call a cab, mine's dead."

He nodded to the push-button job on the wall behind the bar and didn't take his eyes off her as she goes. She could feel the heat, the scrutiny the whole time she called a cabbie and managed to relay the address to a man whose grasp on Common was not nearly as good as his native... Tyroshi, she guessed.

"Yeah... yeah, it's the bar... no, a  _bar_ , not _far_... yes! Look, it's... hey, what's this place called?"

"The Matador."

"The Mat... like the guys who fight bulls?"

"Yeah, them."

"... The Matador. Yeah. Y... Yeah, you, too." She hung up and sighed out her relief, giving her Good Knight a smile. "Well, guy'll be here in ten, he says."

He nodded and went back to his drink, words echoing slightly as he spoke with his lips nearly at the glass. "Take a seat. S'cold out there."

"Thanks... ah, didn't catch your name?"

"Gendry."

"Arya."

"Mucho gusto." 

She cocked an eyebrow and at the sight of it one corner of his mouth tugged up. Arya decided she likes him, dry-wit-waving mope that he might be. He reminded her so much of Jon: all stoic , taciturn manliness but give him a poke, catch him in the right moment, and there was mischief in his eyes. She came around the bar and slid onto the stool next to him, wondering if-

"Not that seat."

She froze with her butt hovering over the seat. "Why not?"

"Because I say so."

Arya's face slid from amused to outraged like the fall of an empire. Her cheeks flushed and her lips pursed and her eyes flashed and she knew all of this. Teachers and septas and exes and family twitched when she put on her warface. But Gendry? He sipped his drink and looked away from her like she was an uppity cockroach. Which didn't help matters, of course.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard. Sit anywhere you like, just not there."

"Private stool or something?"

"If y'want."

"You're being an arsehole, you know that?" 

Finally, she got some hint of surprise of of him. His glass stopped halfway to his lips and his eyes glowed with anger for a brief second. Arya felts her guts tighten, and not in a good way. Alone. In Flea Bottom. Needling a guy who she knew damn well could pound her into the ground if he chose to, Water Dancing lessons or not. But damned if she was going to show any fear in front of him. She planted her hands on her hips and he snorted, looking away again.

"Shouldn't piss off people bigger than you."

"Why not? It's funny."

"Might end badly for you."

"That a threat?"

"That's reality around here, little lady."

She had a fresh shot on her tongue the second his own hit the breeze, but something held her back from loosing it. Something in his tone, like he wasn't just sparring, he was remembering. Telling her the facts of the neighborhood. It could have been so easily a threat: a narrowing of the eyes, a tightening of his jaw and a lower tone... but he never bothered with that. It was the same resigned voice she'd heard before and if it made her feel anything, it was a curious species of pity.

Arya swallowed and cursed him again for cutting off her flow. Damn, and she had such a swell of retorts budding in her, now without a target! She huffed like a horse and turned away from him, studying her odd little sanctuary.

Black-and-white photos in faded wood frame. Prizefighters and baseball stars from long ago. Football stars with Seventies haircuts in photos with Eighties coloring, thick and sharp. And the locals, she guessed. Big, beefy men with no necks and thick arms, or leaner, harder, hungrier, like human coyotes. She couldn't help a crease at the sides of her mouth when she saw Gendry, what looked liked a decade before, face clean-shaven, teeth a white slash across his face fit to make his cheeks ache.

Happy. One arm around a pudgy friend who seemed made of dough and folds of flesh, the other ruffling the hair of a skinny kid with a straggly mop of dirty blonde hair, caught in the very act of cussing him out, lips curled and angry but there was a smile hiding there. Smiles for them all, fuelled by the forest of empty glasses and dead-soldier-bottles at their table. Behind them two taller, older figures lounged at the bar and looked on. Across the years, Arya peered closer and saw the clipped beard on one man, and the other, even taller and broader, half his face covered but the rest twisted into a harsh but oddly affectionate smile.

_They look like extras from The Sopranos._

Glass clinked and slid on wood. She turned and saw him finish the Scotch, lips quirking and twisting as he warred against the taste. Arya couldn't see the man in the pictures when she looked at the one at the bar. But she couldn't just switch off her mind and wonder what had happened to make him like he was. She'd seen he had some humor in him; nearly seen him smile. 

Why did she want to see him smile again?

Then her eyes cast down and they lit up like sparklers and she almost squealed-

"Oh my gods, is this a jukebox?!"

"Huh? Oh... yeah, it is."

"I haven't seen one of these in ages!" She was a kid again, a child, running her hands over the chrome and silver arches and nearly pressing her nose against the glass. Buddy Holly and Dolly Parton, side by side with Drowning Pool and The Killers. Elvis and Cash rubbing shoulders with Manson and Busta. Arya giggled despite herself and rooted around for some change. "Is it a... ah, fuck... um... Blitzer, or something?"

Gendry laughed and she nearly fucking fell over at the sound. It was low and deep and washed over her and she was warm again. Not even remembering why she'd been angry. Arya turned and saw him facing her, head resting lazily on his fist, elbow propped up on the bar, looking more like the kid from the picture.

" _Wurlitzer_ , was what they were called, but nah, _that_ one's a Seeburg. Ever see Happy Days?"

"Yeah, when I was... fuck me, _that's_ the one from the beginning?!"

"Well, not _the_ one, but-"

"Oh, man, I gotta play a song..."

The barstool screeched across the floor and Gendry's voice nearly matched it-

"No."

"What? Why not?"

"Because I-"

"Oh, it's just a song," Arya said without looking back, finding a couple of coppers that the machine would accept. "And I haven't heard The Temptations in ages-"

Her fingers were hovering over the slot, lining up the coin so it could go bouncing and tumbling through the rollercoaster and give her music in return. Her face was lit up and she mentally cursed Sansa and Joff and all the rest of their generation for not appreciating the classics. That club had nearly got her ears bleeding with voiceless, passionless, soulless electro. Nope, give Arya some Motown any day.

A shadow swept over the machine, heralded by quick, heavy stomps. Before she could wipe the smile off her face, Gendry had bent down and yanked something-

The lights went dead and the names went black and the comforting, tireless whirr of old machinery was cut off and-

Killed. He killed it. Made it just another hunk of still electrodes and pointless, powerless metal with a pull of his hand.

Arya looked up at him and didn't try to cover her hurt. It was so... unnecessary. But when he looked back down at her she found only a stubborn, frowning annoyance. Nothing for her to gain purchase on, either in anger or in sadness. She cast her eyes around and felt stupid and helpless and-

"Fine." She mumbled the word and snatched up her purse from the top of the jukebox. "I'll wait outside."

Arya whirled away from him and was halfway to the door before he found a voice. Cold air was already blowing gently towards her from under the door, frozen little tendrils snaking around her bare feet. She was reaching for the handle when she finally heard him say, "You don't have to go out, it's cold-"

"Better than in here!"

She wanted to do more than just shout over her shoulder, but a slam of the door would have to do. Instantly cold was clashing with the warmth on her face, making her skin tingle and prickle and her eyes burn. The Matador. Stupid name. Stupid bull that owned it, too. She wrapped her arms around herself and ignored the cold, but as much as she did, her body didn't fancy the idea. It reminded her just how stupid she was with constant shakes and trembles and soon her lips were blue and she was shivering. 

Arya wished she'd worn more, but... this was supposed to be a good night. Of course, Joff The Jerkoff would be there, but she would get out the house, explore King's Landing, do... gods, she didn't know... things that twenty-year-olds were supposed to do. She pictured herself dancing with Sansa like actual sisters, maybe a couple of guys flirting with her, good music...

She bit hard on her lower lip as she felt her eyes sting, and not from cold. She bowed her head so no-one would see, even if the street was dead and quiet. She hated crying. Hated tears. They were nothing but weakness and stupid and yet whenever she tried to beat it back, she heard Joff's careless, cruel voice in her ear. Ugly little bitch. A lot more blunt that Horseface Arry, but just as bad. She knew her makeup was running and she's look like a clown having a stroke, but she didn't-she wouldn't-

Then the door swung open and gods, it would be even worse. 

She looked away, into an alley where things moved without form and sure intent, so he couldn't see his face. She gritted her teeth until her jaw ached and good, she'd rather have pain than tears. She could bury that. She'd been doing it for years. She dared a glance over her shoulder and he was there, in the doorframe. His frown hadn't moved but then he sighed and scratched the back of his neck... and Arya blinked.

_He almost looks-_

"Sorry," he said, and it wasn't a little boy's forced mumble but a man looking her in the eye and meaning it. "Didn't mean to chase you out here."

Arya turned to face him, and for some reason, the dark, running stains under her eyes didn't factor into the decision. But he wasn't out of the kennel yet...

"I just wanted to listen to a song."

Gendry sucked in a breath through his nose and then blew it out the same way, making Arya feel like... well, a matador, actually. In front of a big, angry bull who didn't really know how to handle the chick in front of him. But he knew enough to give himself some leeway, it seemed, checking his watch and muttering something before holding up a finger.

"One song. Deal?"

Arya straightened her back and nodded solemnly, as if some sacred agreement was being made. But she couldn't stop the smile curling around her lips a moment later, or the way she looked away right after... and notice the soft, confused little blush on his cheeks when she did.

"Look, we goin' in or what, Arya?"

"Well, you've talked me into it, I suppose."

Gendry rolled his eyes, and it took just the one rotation for the guilt and gruffness to fade from his face. His eyes were still hard to her, a shield he would not lower, but his face was a wry line of amusement, one corner pulled up and just a glimmer of teeth visible there.

"Yeah, me and my silver tongue, huh?"

She shrugged and hid her smile with a little bob of her head as she walked past him. At the very least, she'd have The Temptations, and some nice eye candy that wasn't growling at her like a pissed off guard dog. Something tingled in her chin, worked its way into her shoulders and she looked up almost unwillingly.

Dark blue. But in the darkness, when the white made them crackle and stark, they were so much brighter. Crap, those things were fast becoming her own little addiction, and it had been... what, ten minutes? Oooooh, dear.

He held her gaze until his lip twitched and he looked away, same thought seeming to pass between them but damned if they'd give voice to it. Not yet.

Arya bit her lip as she sauntered back to the dead jukebox, wondering if Gendry's eyes were on her and feeling, for once, very much like a girl.

_Fine, then. Maybe I won't kill her... but Joff's still fair game._


	3. Ray Of Laughing Light

"... so take a goooooooood look at mah face! You'll see mah smi-hile looks out of place! If you look clos-er, it's easy to trace... the tracks of mah teeeeeeears...!"

Alright, _now_ he was beginning to have second thoughts about his moment of weakness. Arya hit the wrong tones with an admirable absence of care, dragging out the words, matching her gyrating body. Gendry was no stranger to drunk girls staggering around and bopping to the Seeburg without an inhibition left in them, but it was something else seeing a chick stone-cold sober doing the same.

He glanced in the mirror over the bar, patches of the scene behind him glimpsed around ranks of bottles, a flitting reflection sliding across the polished glass as Arya enjoyed her One Song. He took another sip. Just a single, this time, and for tasting, not knocking back and drowning his throat in stinging, soothing fire. The kind of drink you enjoyed, because you were enjoying the time, and the view.

And he was. You couldn't keep a straight face when you watched Arya, whirling around and undulating like someone had spliced together a fae and a feline and given it the personality that _kicked off_ the heels before she danced, not tottered around in them. Her eyes were mostly closed as she crooned, but she grinned like the whole room was watching. She didn't care. Gendry knew that look. That rapt oneness with the melody and rhythm, lyrics and pitch, beat and time. Most girls danced to the machine to show off, or to flirt, or because the booze had worked into their feet and they swayed and shuffled until him or Hot Pie dragged them away before they made a mess. Arya was dancing because dancing was how you _really_ appreciated music. 

You let it move you, from your soul to your bones to your feet and your fingers, and you didn't give a damn who was looking.

_Shit._

The word whispered through his mind just as those grey beams found him staring (again), and he studied his glass like a maester over his tomes. A giggle mingling with Smokey's groovin' told him just how bloody convincing that had been. He could feel the heat in his cheek spreading to his ears and fucking hells, he was still prowling over the rim of the glass, peeking through gaps in the bottles to check her out in flashes of color and movement and pale, swaying skin.

 _You let her back in, you soft bastard. Might as well have a look at your_ _trouble._

Not a pencil skirt or a mini, something that clung to the thighs above the knees and screamed for attention. It swished and rustled around her knees, sighed through the air whenever she twirled and every time she did, Gendry forced his eyes down just in case she moved to fast and he got a flash of whatever else she had under it. 

Green and grey. He focused on the color. Warm, earthy , not the black and white or garish red the girls in there usually wore, checker flags screaming "Go!" for anyone looking to get them drunk enough, or just to feed their egos. Gendry felt a wince pinch his eyes.

_Are you really one to judge how people feel better about themselves?_

"Just a clooooown, oooh yeah, since you put me dooooown-"

He looked over his shoulder, smile pulling at him again like he had a fishing hook in his mouth. Oh, he wanted to see this part.

"My smile-is-my-make-up-I-wear-since-my-break-up-with-yoooooooou...!"

_Not bad._

She flung her head from side to side with each word, bit out with Smokey's agony, sharp crack of music backing up every word like the song was being chopped with a cleaver. Coaxing out that last word with her body frozen save for her chin tilting further upward, until that final chorus washed over them both. 

Gendry grinned. He didn't even know he was doing it. She was snapping her fingers and belting out the chorus and she was a shimmering wonder by the low neon and the faded bulbs. Cast her shadows around with her caterwauls and he could feel the pictures of heroes and friends past waving their approval from the dusty frames and frozen photos. Simple chain around her neck like she'd been slashed with a blade of molten gold, catching the light and winking at him, enticing him-

The grin faded, and then it was gone. 

_Shit. Again._

It probably wasn't the expression she was looking for when she opened her eyes, breathless and grinning until her cheeks were round red apples. Him sitting there with a bare swallowing his glass, face pinched and pensive, eyes open but gazing inward, unseeing. She stepped towards him and that was enough, reality coming back in an intake of breath and he saw grey eyes close to his. Silver and snow clouds. Smoked diamonds and morning mist. 

"C'mon, can't have been that bad, right?"

"... huh?"

A snort and a roll of her eyes and Gendry was back on his game. He'd have to be, with her. She hopped up onto the barstool a little way down the bar, not forgetting what he'd said before, elbow on the polished wood, head tilted onto her fingertips and Gendry watched her hair stream down to cover it. It tumbled and it danced even though the song was over, and when he felt the urge to run his hand through it he almost choked on the last drop of Scotch.

"Whooa... easy there, big man. Some go down the wrong tube?"

"M'f... M'fine." 

"Yeah, that red face is always a great indication, isn't it?"

He scowled at her but there was no heat in it. Not with the impish way she bit one corner of her bottom lip and flicked a glance back at the Seeburg. "I go again?"

"One song, remember?"

"You didn't specify _how many times_ I could play that one song, did you?"

Gendry wasn't going to give her the bloody satisfaction of a direct answer, and reminded himself to be wary playing pool or poker with the little sprite. He knew you didn't need something swinging between your legs to be a cunning bastard; Asha and Ygritte were always proof of that, and now he added a fresh female to the list. Instead he poured himself-

No. He didn't. Two glasses. Two shots. The bottle stopped over the bar, amber liquid sloshing gently back and forth, an inch and an angle away from pouring, but it did not come. He could feel her eyes on him, those smoky blades running over his arm and hand and bottle and face and the conflict there. Two glasses. Enough for one night. If he had a third, there was a good chance there'd be an empty bottle and a snoring bartender drooling on the floor when Hot Pie opened up.

"Enough for one night, huh?"

Gendry blinked. He hadn't thought that. He looked over and her face had changed so much. Playful sparkle playing across those two moons. She managed a smile and a shrug, a messy thing with her head rested on her fingers, a little fidget of movement.

"Don't mean to pry or anything."

"Thought you wanted to play your song again?"

"Changed my mind. More fun watching you."

Gendry's face went sour in a heartbeat. He'd enough of that shite years before. Watched and gossipped over like he was some dirty local secret, gutter celebrity, a zoo exhibit without bars or cage. The bottle thudded onto the bar louder than it should have and Arya straightened up. He could see her guilt but it didn't last. Her frown came back, banishing her fear and her shame and she was ready for a fight again. Damnit why the fuck did he _like that_ about her? Nosy fucking girl with her attitude and her toff voice, giving him shit and dragging out his night like he was-

"What? You were watching me."

"Can't we just wait in fucking silence? Would that be too much to ask?"

"Fine, if you wanna be boring."

"I do."

"Well, you can pour me a drink while we're waiting, then."

"Wait-what-?"

Gendry swung around but she was already a scrape of a stool and bare feet slapping across the pine floor, one side of her mouth cocked like the hammer of a gun. He scowled and she saw it. Men had quailed from his anger before. Swallowed and looked like scared little boys and mumbled their pathetic apologies. Not this girl. He knew it was because she had no fucking idea who he was, but Gendry wanted it to be more than that. Arya simply didn't scare easy.

_And why does that oh fuck-_

He was a big man but that didn't make him slow; popular misconception, that. He'd slid from the stool and in her path in a beat, broad chest a black cotton wall to her progress. He blinked as she seemed to peruse it from a few bare inches again and gods damnit he really needed to get this blush under control. He hadn't been a tongue-stumbling greenie since he was fucking fifteen, and now the sight of Arya cocking an appreciative eyebrow at his chest was enough to make him swallow hard.

_Too long living like a fucking monk is all._

"Show me your ID."

"Oh, c'mon-"

"Not getting shut down for anyone, love."

"Who's gonna know?"

"Someone _always_ knows."

Her gaze tightened a fraction but only became more intense, like a laser focused closer and closer in on itself. Pink tongue like a slice of watermelon flicked out of her mouth to lick her lips and Gendry was thirsty. Patched. Ravenous. 

"I left it at the bar I got ditched at. Fell out my purse."

"You're a shitty liar."

"I'm an _excellent_ liar; you're just good at spotting them."

"No ID, no booze. That's the rules."

"Oh, and where is that-"

His arm snaps out like a steel girder and points to the black-and-white plaque above the bar.

"... ah. Well, I still want a drink."

"You can't have one."

"You're gonna turn down a twenty for one drink? One shot? Not smart business."

"Know what's even stupider? Giving minors booze."

"I'm not a damn minor."

"We'll never know, will we? What with your ID being lost..."

Arya inhaled deep like she was preparing to breath fire, five-foot-one of stymied young punk and Gendry crossed his arms over his chest in victory... and made a point to rest his knuckles under his biceps, just to-

_Show off. You're showing off for a fucking college girl, you pathetic cunt._

Not that he gave a fuck in that moment. Their words were hammering back and forth like tennis balls, no, more than that, like bullets and swords and he could feel the clang and see the sparks whenever she tried to get around him and he slapped her away. He wasn't thinking about the past or the pictures or the booze anymore: he was focused solely on the lying little pixie in front of him and how he hadn't actually _talked_ to a girl in... gods... fucking years. He was enjoying it. He was _relishing_ it. She wasn't backing down and resorting to tears or begging or snapping like some of the entitled cunts he had swanning in here some nights. She wanted to beat him _honestly_ , and he could respect that.

"I could give you something else."

The high plummeted. The motor went from revving to stalled to crashed. His eyes cooled like furnaces doused and his smile fell at the corners. Arya saw it and the mischief mutated; became something angry and indignant and drawing her lips back from her teeth. 

"What's that look for?"

"What're you going to offer?"

"Nothing, now you're looking at me like _that_."

"Like what-"

"Like I'm some _fucking whore!_ "

Just like before, they slid so easily from order to chaos. Gendry could see those sunderings coming, or had been. It had been something that kept him alive. Knowing when the mood was getting thick and ugly, when eyes became tight and shoulders tensed. Hands and fingers twitching, tones becoming more feral, all pointing towards violence, always simmering, always lurking, getting ready to burst through the water and take a fucking chUnk out of you. But it was so _fast_ with Arya. She didn't fear being unladylike and she didn't suffer her insults like a good girl. 

Gendry breathed slowly and remembered... fuck, less than fifteen minutes before. Him going too far, a rare damn thing, not wanting to hear the Seeburg singing to an empty room, like it had years before when it was just them. Just the lads. The Brotherhood. She hadn't known, but she'd suffered for his fucking nostalgia, and he had to make it right. Now it looked like he was making the same mistake... but he had to be _sure_.

_Nothing lost if you're wrong, boy._

"It wouldn't be the-" Her eyes flare and Gendry can feel the ice creaking under him. He doesn't want to fuck this up. He licks his lips and her eyes on his tongue give him what fire he needs to go on. "Just tell me. What you were offering."

She shook her head like she was getting rid of flies in his ears and she was trying to push past him, eyes low, not wanting to look and his arm just moves-

Desperate. Her lips weren't trembling then; they were white and pressed together in anger and she tried to shrug away from him but he's far too strong. He can feel her body tense and writhe, some corner of him wants to enjoy just touching her, but he knows she's an inch away from frenzy and-

"Please."

_Well, it worked for her._

"Please, just tell me. Then I'll never ask again."

They were a film paused, a song half sung, a painting with the brush taken from canvas. Breathing the same warm air, they were that close. Mistrust and hurt pride crackled from her eyes and Gendry lowered his own, eyebrows rising as he did, hazarding a soft smile like he was extending a hand to a hurt, angry-

Wolf. 

"Please? C'mon, three times now..." His thumb circled her skin at her elbow just once. Marshmallows. Soft and pale and warm and his smile grew wider, bolder as her breath hitched just a touched, then he let her go. Gave her a chance to get away, and he wouldn't stop her if she did. "Just tell me."

"I... You know the Braavosi place on Wyld Front Road?"

Relief was drowned by confusion in a handful of blinks, long enough for his eyebrows to crush his blue eyes again. 

"Yeah...?"

Arya squared her shoulders and drew herself up straight. Didn't make much of a difference - she still barely came up to his chin - but Gendry gave her his undivided, just like she wanted. She wasn't running. That was all he cared about. She was still there, face lit and shadowed both by the dying lights in the dingy pub, but she was a laughing ray of sunshine and fucking gods, he was starting to wax poetic.

_Bad sign._

"I was going to get us lunch there."

Gendry blinked. His ears stopped working. Then his mind took a siesta. Because no way did she just say that.

"... what was that?"

"Lunch? Meal between brunch and afternoon tea? Usually taken around midday?"

"You get off on sarcasm, don't you?"

"Amongst other things."

_Godsdamn this fucking blush!_

"So..." He cleared his throat and she was smirking her victory and that just made his face flush even more. Ten years, a solid foot, about eighty pounds and a lifetime of bad memories, but _he_ was the one acting the sodding maiden. "So, that's the offer? You buy me lunch?"

"In exchange for a drink."

"It's a little early. Like, nine hours early."

"We can do it the day after, if you'd like."

Gendry blinked and it didn't take long for the boy talking to a pretty girl to sod off and the bartender to return. He sighed, leaning against the bar, one hand reaching out to grab the Scotch around the neck. His voice was a smirk with tones, and that was exactly what he was aiming for. If she were halfway honestly with herself, she'd understand why.

"So, just so I'm clear on this: I give you a drink, something that could get me shut down and fined t'boot, and you will take me to some highborn-servin' takeaway on the posh side of town, days after you leave here?"

"You make it sound like I'm trying to cheat you."

"Wow, I wonder why that is?"

"I give you my word."

Gods, he wanted to believe her. He didn't know why and he didn't like that pull, that yearning. It was wild and it came with a whole prickly personality wrapped around it and it wasn't... safe. Controllable. Gendry's smirk stayed in place but his eyes turned glassy, thinking back on his simple life and how this girl could mess it up. Minutes and hours of the day became days and months and gods he was planning out days with her. Not just fantasizing, which was nothing new for him. Even monks had cocks. 

He poured a drink. A single. Didn't even need to look at the glass as he popped the cork. Felt the little tremor and tink! of the bottle touching the top of it, knew from years of practice and countless shots chambered and fired how much was enough. No, his eyes were on her. The way the amber danced dark and rich in her eyes as she followed the pour. Arya smiled but only with half her face. Because when the bottle was corked and put to one side, he grabbed it up and circled the shot gently in the bottom, like it was finest cognac instead of Johnny Stagger. 

Gendry kept his eyes on her. His own personal ray, if only for a night. He smiled, and there was gratitude there, a thanks she'd never understand the reason for. But there was more and more besides her and he checked his watch again and... fuck, it was getting late. It was one drink with one girl and she was right: there was hardly a risk of her grassing him up, and it wasn't like she was feeding a drunk girl liqour. 

He stood up and extended the glass. She stepped forward and took it, brief brush of her fingertips warm and foreign against his worn worker's palm. She didn't look away and before she sipped, eyes bright as harvest moons over the glass, amber and silver and refracted neon red all dancing around her face like she was an aurora given bare feet and grey highlights, he cocked an eyebrow.

"Sure. Why not?"

"Figured you'd say that."

He rolled his eyes at the way she bit her lip, and quirked her eyebrow in return. Cool, shit-eating confidence in every easy action as she sat at the end of the bar. 

"Oh, aye? And how'd you figure that?"

"You couldn't take your eyes off me the whole time the song was playing."

She sipped her drink and licked her lips like a cat with the cream, the cow and the fucking farm along with it, and Gendry should have blushed. That was what she was expecting. That was what he was expecting, but instead he answered within a heartbeat, bypassing his mind and his hesitation and said without fear or doubt, "Man'd have to be a fool not to watch you dance, Arya."

She nearly dropped her glass. Her eyes went wide and Gendry hadn't noticed just how large they were. So much in them, behind the bluster and the swagger. It was surprise that made her hands weaken and she had to throw up her other one to steady it. Confusion. Like she was so unused to being called that. Then she was darting around like a mouse looking for a hole, trying to cover it up with a snicker and failing... knowing she was.

Her eyes went somewhere else. Gendry stopped smiling. He knew that look. He'd wager it wasn't the same with her, but he knew bad memories when he saw them laugh at you.

"You'd be surprised."

"Aye," he said, and waited until she looked back at him before nodding. "I would."

She smiled, and it was such a simple thing. But so is a sunrise. So is rain after a drought and land after months adrift. Gendry blinked for a long moment and thought he was reading too much. When he opened them, the smile was there, and it was like he was seeing it for the first time. Without any guile behind it, trying to butter him up or fake him out or just be polite because that's what you did around strangers. 

Arya raised the glass and down the shot, lips curling inwards to kiss her teeth and the fierce, burning flavor; eye a wink of mascara and mischief.

"Cheers."

More noise from the door. Not quite the battering ram Arya had been, but enough to get their attention. 

"Shit, that'll be the cab," she said, padding over to grab her heels and purse and something was wrong. Something was missing. "So, ah... what's the day after today?"

"You mean tomorrow?"

"Yes, smartarse, tomorrow?"

She smiled and he was blinded again, but still got to his feet, gazing in the darkness outside the smoked window. Guy must have been driving without lights, because there was no ghostly glare of headlights flashing across the glass. Just silence, and stillness, then someone at the door. Hairs began standing on the back of his neck but he was still bantering, following her to the door on feet not his own. 

"Er... Monday."

"Fine, Monday, you open Monday around midday?"

"Not until three." He looked around her, close to the windows now. "Arya, wait one-"

Click. Clank. Pulling bolts free. Taking away their protection and Gendy didn't have anything on him anymore. Just a bar stool on the table next to him and a girl between him and the door-

_No car. That isn't the cabbie._

"C'mon, he'll get pissy if I wait! Look, I'll come round then-"

She opened wide the door and there was no light. No neon. No wind. 

Arya looked up as Gendry's eyes widened and up and up and found a face torn from hell and plastered onto a giant. A handful of inches shy of seven feet and built like a prizefighter, packs of muscle shoved under shoulders and thick arms under a pea coat he wore like armor. Harsh, angular features looked at her from one side, but under a brushing of hair hung low and lank, a daemon's visage glared at her from the other. 

White bone at his jaw, shining through ruined, wasted flesh. Ropes of black and stiff muscle and skin torched to nothing. Tendons shining wetly as they moved without a face to hide them, the full gruesome mechanics of a man's face laid open to see and she was staring staring staring and he _did not like it_.

The huge man looked down at her and then looked at Gendry. His grimace of perpetual contempt softened for a moment, but under it was annoyance more than anything else, as if he'd come from one problem only to run smack into another. A voice rasped out, as scarred as the face is growled from, forever etched and scraping after so long screaming from pain and anguish, decades ago, when his brother had finished his "education".

"What in the seven hells are you doing with a Stark girl?"

 

**Author's Note:**

> "Boots Of Braavosi Leather" is starting to eat all my creativity alive, so I thought I'd try my hand at something else. My first attempt at Gendrya AND a Modern Setting, too! Comments, opinions, critiques, suggestions, hurl them all at me. I can take it! 
> 
> Oh, and thanks for reading, as always. X


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